


better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven

by Sweetsourwolf



Category: The White Queen (TV)
Genre: F/M, Uncle/Niece Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25136323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweetsourwolf/pseuds/Sweetsourwolf
Summary: “They’re saying I killed her so I could marry you,” he speaks. In her heart she knows it isn’t true. But as he stands there, looking over his wife’s corpse, she wishes that he had.
Relationships: Elizabeth of York Queen of England/Richard III of England
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven

**Author's Note:**

> well, they are reigning...of some sort...I don't regret anything

“Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss”  
― John Milton, Paradise Lost

Her mother had told her stories about him. The cursed brother. The king in black. The liar, the traitor, the murderer.

She’d heard rumors of his hunchback, his forked tail, the leather bat-like wings he hid underneath his clothes.

None of those turned out to be true, to her grave disappointment. She’d expected something terrifying but great, frightening yet beautiful.

He _was,_ still. In every way she couldn’t have imagined. And she had loved him and dreamed of him long before they’d met. She’d loved him with the blood of her family. With her own blood.

“They’re saying I killed her so I could marry you,” he speaks. In her heart she knows it isn’t true. But as he stands there, looking over his wife’s corpse, she wishes that he had.

She wishes she had.

“But it isn’t true,” comes her hollow response. She wants the rumors to be right, for him to show her his wings and teeth.

Elizabeth makes her way over to his side, like she always does. _Look at me, not her_ , she thinks.

“They are saying that I poisoned her,” he continues as if she isn’t there. Every word that leaves his mouth is like ash scattered in the wind, none of it means anything to her.

“They’re bringing an army against me.” And this is the true matter at hand. He has no heir. No wife. No claim. “You have to go, Elizabeth.”

At her name falling from his gracious lips she awakens. She will kiss those worries away if it’s the final thing she’ll do in this life. She’ll comfort him with her body and soul, wrap all she has around him like the treacherous snake trapping him in her paradise.

“Richard, you mustn’t -” she begs, reaching for him.

“I’m not _Richard_ ,” he reminds her, “I am your King.” She sees a glimpse of the shadow cross his face, finds herself wanting to drown in his obsidian eyes, bare as the day she came into this world.

Her fingers grace his arm, every touch a punishment as well as an act of defiance from her side. _Take a bite,_ she means to ask. _Go on, I won’t resist._

Her corset feels tight around her waist, and she’s reminded of his hand on her back when no one was paying attention. Except everyone was. But not to them.

The necklace he’d gifted her moves up and down with her heaving chest.

“Now go,” he commands a final time. She doesn’t leave.

“GO!” he yells, his face distorting with anger instead of grief. He looks demonic.

“I will not,” she says instead. “Talk to me, Richard, please.”

He smiles bitterly, his gaze still fixed on the body in front of him and asks: “What would you have me do?”

Elizabeth places her hand on his cheek, steering his gaze away from his dead wife. She kisses him then, her lips barely brushing against his, just a taste of their poison. Before running her delicate little hand down his chest, lower and lower.

“Take me,” she whispers. “I’ll give you a son. I’ll be your Queen.”

Richard wraps his hand around her pale neck, as he aligns their bodies and she feels the evidence of his arousal against her.

“You are a wicked woman,” he says affectionately, and takes a bite.

He chases her lips like his saving grace, tries to defile her with his kiss. Elizabeth lets out a relieved sigh, pulls her skirts up and parts her legs in invitation.

He mounts her, his poor wife long forgotten when he sinks into her. Her nails carve at any part of his skin she can reach, crushed that she can’t feel more of his bare flesh against her.

She might’ve bled, her virtue smeared all over him as evidence of her commitment. She's exceedingly wet as well. He has no trouble forcing his way in and out of her, every thrust comes quicker than the previous.

Elizabeth finally feels whole. Deliriously happy. She imagines claws scraping the sensitive skin behind her knee, imagines sinking into the black pools of his eyes, while being enraptured in molten gold.

She’ll have her crown. And he'll have his throne.

 _“Uncle Richard,”_ she moans and his hips stutter. He buries his face in her reddish hair, drinks in her scent.

“Sweet Elizabeth…”

She feels him spill his seed inside her, and wills it to impregnate her with a child. Their child. 

If they are to be cast out of paradise, so be it. For now, by his side, an eternity of suffering doesn't seem all that bad.


End file.
